Perfect Crime. Helen Fields

and was trying to figure out why she’d taken such a massive risk, Callanach thought. Ava wasn’t in the best place right now.

       Chapter Six

       4 March

      Ava was standing at her office window when Callanach and Tripp entered. Arms crossed, face pinched, she was as defensive as Callanach had ever seen her.

      ‘Thank you, DS Tripp, you can go now,’ she dismissed.

      Tripp glanced at Callanach but said nothing, exiting quietly.

      ‘Ava, are you all right? I was worried about you,’ Callanach said, crossing the room to her, ready to give whatever support she needed.

      Instead, she took a step away from him.

      ‘I had a call from Ailsa while you were out,’ she said.

      ‘Stephen Berry’s tox results?’ Callanach asked.

      ‘New case, actually. Her deputy performed the postmortem early this morning. What looked like a natural death turns out to have been a suffocation.’

      ‘Do you need me to get a squad to the scene?’ Callanach asked.

      ‘Scenes of Crime is already there with uniformed officers,’ Ava replied tersely. ‘They’re conducting preliminary interviews. I’m giving this one to Pax Graham.’

      ‘You’re putting him in charge of a murder investigation on his first day? I’m not sure he’s even up to speed with MIT procedures yet. If it’s handled wrongly, it could be fatal for the prosecution.’

      ‘I’m aware of that,’ Ava said. ‘Where were you when I called you to meet me at the mortuary to see Stephen Berry’s body?’

      ‘I told you at the time, I was at my flat. I hadn’t unpacked. I still haven’t after last night …’

      ‘Actually, you said you were at the gym, so I’m curious that it turns out you were at a nursing home visiting a man called Bruce Jenson.’

      ‘Bruce Jenson?’ Callanach paused. There was no way Ava could know anything about Jenson. They’d never discussed him or what he’d done to his mother. ‘Sorry, I don’t understand what you’re asking me.’

      ‘Are you denying that you lied to me about the gym?’ She was breathing fast, her voice louder than the conversation warranted.

      Ava was furious, Callanach realised, and it was about more than just being lied to.

      ‘Fine, I wasn’t at the gym. I had personal business that I didn’t want to discuss. No big deal. What’s going on, Ava?’

      ‘I’m not Ava right now,’ she said, her voice little more than a whisper. ‘I’m DCI Turner. And once this conversation’s over, I’m going to have to make up a formal statement recording what we both said. Technically speaking, I should probably have another officer in here as a witness, but you saved my life last night, so I’m giving you this, but I won’t break procedure to any greater degree. Were you at the nursing home, yes or no?’

      ‘Yes,’ Callanach said.

      Ava’s folded arms flopped momentarily to her sides as if defeated before she took control and landed them forcefully on her hips.

      ‘And you lied to me because?’

      ‘You needed me and I didn’t want you to think you were disturbing me,’ he said.

      ‘You lied to me for my own sake?’ Ava’s voice was getting louder.

      ‘I lied because I made the decision to get straight back on with work. I wasn’t doing anything I couldn’t walk away from. What exactly has happened that’s so …’

      ‘Bruce Jenson’s dead,’ Ava said abruptly, watching his face.

      Callanach remained still.

      ‘He had advanced dementia and death was apparently inevitable, the doctor said, but not expected any time soon. He had perhaps a year, maybe more left. His doctor hadn’t seen him for a month and the nurses were happy with his condition, so they were surprised to find him deceased. In those circumstances, procedure is for there to be a postmortem and then …’

      ‘Wait,’ Callanach said. ‘Just … give me a moment.’

      It was Callanach’s turn to walk to the window. He stared down at the rows of police cars parked below and at the brave pedestrians outside in the rain. Bruce Jenson was dead. He’d wished it on him every day since his mother had revealed the tragedy in her past, had so nearly lost his temper sufficiently to bring Jenson’s life to an end himself, and now that it had happened he felt nothing. No relief, no pleasure, no sense that justice had been done.

      In a bitter twist, Jenson had left him one single, poisonous inheritance. Callanach had been left to answer for his presence in Jenson’s room just hours before the man had died. How absolutely fucking typical. Once fate had decided that you were an apt target, it was as persistent as chewing gum on the bottom of your shoe.

      ‘How did he die?’ Callanach asked quietly.

      ‘Looks as if a cushion was held over his mouth. We won’t have confirmation until the fibres in his mouth have been inspected under a microscope, but there are teeth marks against the inside of his upper lip, which suggests that pressure was applied, and there’s no other obvious causes of death. No stroke, no cardiac event.’

      Clear-cut murder then, and with the same cushion he’d been holding just a little while before. The possibility that it was a coincidence seemed ridiculous and yet the cushion was the most obvious weapon in the room. One that didn’t require you to get your hands dirty and which offered a silent death.

      For a second he wondered if he hadn’t, perhaps, gone further than his memory was allowing him to recall. If he hadn’t pressed the square of material and stuffing into the bastard’s face and held it there just long enough for all the oxygen in Jenson’s lungs to be depleted. He deserved it. No question about it. As far as Callanach was concerned, Jenson had deserved that and a whole lot more. But it hadn’t happened at his hand. Callanach turned to look Ava straight in the eyes.

      ‘I didn’t do that to him,’ he said.

      ‘Of course you didn’t, you bloody idiot. If I thought you did we’d be in an interview room with the tape running and I’d have handed the case over to a different team. So really, no bullshit: why did you lie to me? And what the hell were you doing there anyway?’

      ‘Just visiting,’ Callanach said.

      ‘Yeah, well unfortunately for you, when the – and I quote – really, really good-looking French policeman goes for a visit somewhere, he doesn’t exactly blend in. The nurse who allowed you access virtually gave the uniformed officers who took her statement your inner leg measurement.’

      ‘It was a completely innocent visit …’ he mumbled.

      ‘Social?’ Ava clarified.

      ‘Yes,’ Callanach said.

      ‘That’s what I assumed, only you used your police ID to gain access rather than signing the visitors’ book, so it looks like official police business. Only for the life of me, given that you’re in my command, I cannot think what case we have running that Mr Jenson is in any way involved in. Please say you can enlighten me.’

      Callanach reached into his pocket and withdrew a pack of Gauloises cigarettes. Shaking one loose, he stuck it between his lips unlit, tasting France and his youth. Actually, lighting a cigarette was a line he hadn’t crossed in years, but there were times he wished he wasn’t quite so disciplined.

      ‘I’ve got to tell you that’s not quite the reassuring